“That’s the worst of a woman,” said her husband, avoiding her eye and addressing a sanitary dustbin of severe aspect; “they do things without thinking first. That’s why men are superior; before they do a thing they look at it all round, and upside down, and—and—make sure it can be done. Now, you get up in a temper this morning, and the first thing you do—not even waiting to get my breakfast ready first—is to go on strike. If you’d thought for two minutes you’d see as ’ow it’s impossible for you to go on strike for more than a couple of hours or so.” “Why?” inquired Mrs. Porter. “Kids,” replied her husband, triumphantly. “They’ll be coming ’ome from school soon, won’t they? And they’ll be wanting their dinner, won’t they?” “That’s all right,” murmured the other, vaguely. “After which, when night comes,” pursued Mr. Porter, “they’ll ’ave to be put to bed. In the morning they’ll ’ave to be got up and washed and dressed and given their breakfast and sent off to school. Then there’s shopping wot must be done, and beds wot must be made.” “I’ll make ours,” said his wife, decidedly. “For my own sake.” “And wot about the others?” inquired Mr. Porter. “The others’ll be made by the same party as washes the children, and cooks their dinner for ’em, and puts ’em to bed, and cleans the ’ouse,” was the reply. “I’m not going to have your mother ’ere,” exclaimed Mr. Porter, with sudden heat. “Mind that!” “I don’t want her,” said Mrs. Porter. “It’s a job for a strong, healthy man, not a pore old thing with swelled legs and short in the breath.” “Strong—’ealthy—man!” repeated her husband, in a dazed voice. “Strong—’eal—— Wot are you talking about?” Mrs. Porter beamed on him. “You,” she said, sweetly. There was a long silence, broken at last by a firework display of expletives. Mrs. Porter, still smiling, sat unmoved. “You may smile!” raved the indignant Mr. Porter. “You may sit there smiling and smoking like a—like a man, but if you think that I’m going to get the meals ready, and soil my ’ands with making beds and washing-up, you’re mistook. There’s some ’usbands I know as would set about you!” Mrs. Porter rose. “Well, I can’t sit here gossiping with you all day,” she said, entering the house. “Wot are you going to do?” demanded her husband, following her. “Going to see Aunt Jane and ’ave a bit o’ dinner with her,” was the reply. “And after that I think I shall go to the ‘pictures.’ If you ’ave bloaters for dinner be very careful with little Jemmy and the bones.” “I forbid you to leave this ’ouse!” said Mr. Porter, in a thrilling voice. “If you do you won’t find nothing done when you come home, and all the kids dirty and starving.” “Cheerio!” said Mrs. Porter. Arrayed in her Sunday best she left the house half an hour later. A glance over her shoulder revealed her husband huddled up in a chair in the dirty kitchen, gazing straight before him at the empty grate.